You Don't Have to Ask
by Banana Tooth
Summary: I'm grinning, just because I love him so much. I wonder what I've ever done to deserve this. MacStella, post All Access.


**Title: **You Don't Have to Ask

**Author:** Banana Tooth

**Rating:** K

**Classification:** Mac/Stella

**Timeline: **Following Season 2. Spoilers for "All Access."

**Disclaimer:** I am in no way connected with CBS, the CSI Franchise, or its writers, producers, or directors.

I'm in the checkout line with my groceries when my phone rings. It's Mac, and I sigh, because I was looking forward to my day off. But to my relief, he's not asking me to come in.

"I was wondering if you'd finished that paperwork," he says. He's been buried in paperwork lately, so I had offered to take some home and work on it. He hadn't wanted me to, of course, but I insisted.

"Yeah, do you need it today? I can bring it in," I offer.

"Actually, I was over in your direction and I thought I could save you the trip…is it all right if I stop by?"

"Well, I'm just leaving the grocery store, but I'll meet you there."

"You sure it's okay?" he asks.

"Sure, Mac, that's fine," I answer as I fish in my purse for my keys. It's just a couple of blocks back to my building, but he's already there when I arrive.

"Come on up," I say. He automatically takes my grocery bags, and still manages to hold the door for me after I unlock it. I wonder if it was his mother who taught him his instinctive good manners. Or maybe he was just born this way.

We take the elevator to my floor and I open my door. "Thanks, Mac. You can put them on the counter if you want." I gather up the paperwork and turn to hand it to him, but I stop. He's staring at the steps. I realize this is the first time he's been back to my place. I've finally gotten all the blood stains cleaned up, but I wonder if he's still imagining them.

He realizes I'm looking at him, and reaches to take the folder. "Thanks for doing this, Stella. There's no telling when I would have gotten to it."

"No problem," I say. Now he's staring at me. "What's wrong?" I ask.

"I didn't know you still had a scar there," he says, his gaze fixed on the place just below my eye.

I've forgotten that I'm not wearing any makeup. "No, I—usually cover it up," I say, flushing a little under his scrutiny.

Slowly he reaches out and sets his hand along my cheek, his thumb lightly stroking the scar. His hand is warm and gentle and I can't help but contrast his touch to the vicious blow that left the wound. I think about how one man I thought I loved left me unconscious and bleeding on the floor, while the one I know I love is barely touching me and still sending little tingles all through my body.

I wonder if he can feel my heart pounding. His face is so close…it would be so easy just to lean forward and kiss him…I want to, desperately. I shut my eyes against temptation, and instead I turn my face toward his hand and kiss his palm.

That's a big enough risk in itself. I expect him to remove his hand, and say something in embarrassment and beat it out of here, but instead his hand slides down along the side of my neck and he kisses the scar, ever so lightly. I bite my lip, suppressing a gasp as the touch of his lips sets off a delicious pang in the pit of my stomach.

His lips move up my temple to the corner of my eyebrow and rest there. I'm actually lightheaded. I feel myself start to sway and I rest my hands on either side of his waist to steady myself. We stand like that for a long moment, so close, yet connected only by a fragile, tenuous bond. _At each other's fingertips_, I think.

Finally he pulls away and I open my eyes and look up at him, but I can't read his expression. His eyes are wide and dark. At least he doesn't look startled or regretful, or even surprised.

"I have to get back to work," he says, his voice low and raspy.

"Come back tonight," I murmur.

He hesitates, and I think with a sinking feeling that now I've scared him off, that now we'll go along for years the way we always have, but then he says, "Let's go out to dinner."

"Okay," I breathe.

"Pick you up at eight?"

"Yeah." _Nice gracious response there, Stella_. I try again. "I—yes. That would be great." He's turned me into a stammering idiot.

He leaves, and I shut the door behind him and lean against it for a long time, trying to get my pulse and breathing back to normal, trying to keep from dancing around the apartment in joy.

* * *

I force myself to wait until a reasonable time to start getting ready. I try on seven whole outfits before telling myself firmly, _This is silly. He sees you all day long, every day. And half the time you're in coveralls going through garbage or something. He knows what you look like. _I pick an outfit and put it on, turning away from the full-length mirror so I won't be tempted to change.

As I put on my makeup, I grin at myself in the small bathroom mirror and consider leaving the scar visible. _Apparently, that's the way to get results_. But I cover it up anyway, because it seemed to upset him.

I'm ready way ahead of time. I try to read, but all I can do is pace the apartment in a flurry of excitement. Finally, on one of my many trips to the window, I see a cab drive up, and I watch him as he emerges, feeling a foolish twinge of love for him as his lean, muscular form ascends the steps. I buzz him up and it seems like an eternity before he taps at my door.

I'm glad, now, that I took the time getting ready, as his eyes go over me admiringly and I blush with pleasure. He's brought me flowers, not a standard, boring bouquet but a breathtaking assortment in a long white box. _They must have cost a fortune_, says my practical side.

"Oh, Mac, they're beautiful," I say. "Let me put them in water and then we'll go."

I go in the kitchen and stand the flowers in a vase. They're so nicely cut that they seem to arrange themselves. When I turn around to thank him again, he isn't there, so I poke my head out the kitchen door. He's still standing outside in the hallway.

"Okay if I come in?" he asks.

My brow furrows a little. "Mac…you don't have to ask."

He steps inside, a little shyly, as I finish up the flowers and get my purse, and then we walk together down to the street. I like walking with him, like being dressed up by his side. I like his hand at my elbow as he helps me into the cab.

He's made reservations at the restaurant, and I wonder if he asked for the table we're given, because it's perfect—secluded in a corner where we can talk undisturbed. Unfortunately, I seem to have gone from "stammering" to "bashfully speechless," and we barely speak until we give our orders and the waitress leaves.

I look up then and meet his eyes. I still can't read his expression.

"Stella—I want to apologize for this morning."

He does regret it. I don't think my face moves. Can he tell, I wonder, that my world has just come crashing down around me, that I suddenly feel sick? But he continues.

"I know you want your home to be your safe place, and I had no right to come in there and do that…and I just want to say that I'm sorry."

It's not just a twinge now, but a whole wave of love for him that washes over me as I reach over and take his hand. I remember how he asked twice if it was okay to come over, how he wouldn't come in without an invitation. "Mac, do you think I would have just stood there if I didn't want you to?"

He looks at me for a moment and then nods, dropping his eyes to our hands. "I just don't want to do anything to remind you of him," he says quietly.

So that's what's bothering him. I squeeze his hand. "I don't think that's going to happen," I murmur.

He turns his hand over so that mine lies in his palm, and strokes my fingers. The scars there are still visible too. He still seems upset, so I try to distract him. "How was work today?"

Our food comes, and I succeed in getting him to talk about work, and ask him about his jazz band. He asks if I had a good day off, and I tell him about what I've been reading. I don't know whether to try to cheer him up or try to get to the bottom of what's eating him, so I just try to keep him talking.

We order dessert and as we're finishing it I take a deep breath and dare to ask him what's in the back of my mind. "Would you like to come back to my place for a drink?"

"Are you sure it's all right?"

He's really worried about that. "Mac, if things should ever…go wrong between us, I can ask you not to come back, and you won't." _You won't break in and try to kill me, either_. "I trust you."

He seems relieved. Maybe I've finally reassured him. "Thank you," he says gently.

* * *

In the cab on the way back to my place, I slide over close to him and take his hand between both of mine. I love his hands—big and strong and warm, deft and graceful from years of intricate lab work. When we arrive, he holds mine firmly all the way up to my apartment, and this time I draw him inside and close the door behind us.

I have a special bottle of wine that someone gave me, which I've been saving for a special occasion. I set two glasses on the counter and open the bottle, and he comes up behind me as I pour. I turn to hand him one and find him very close, his eyes locked with mine as we each take a sip. "Are you all right?" he asks.

"Yes, Mac," I assure him.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. It's okay."

He nods, looking down at his glass. "I thought you were dead."

"What?"

"It looked like both of you were dead. I couldn't tell if you were breathing…I had to feel for your pulse."

I remember that—waking up to his hand on my cheek, his face swimming into focus. I didn't know where I was or what had happened, but I knew I was safe, because Mac was there.

"I kept thinking over and over, I can't do this again."

"Do what, Mac?"

Now he looks up, looking straight into my eyes. "Lose the woman I love," he says.

We stare at each other for a moment, a little breathlessly, and then I take both glasses and set them on the counter and wrap my arms around him, hugging him tightly, laying my face down on his shoulder. I want to laugh and cry, all at once. His arms go around me, one hand stroking my hair, his other arm hard at my waist. I turn my face against his neck, and think how many times I've dreamed of doing this, how often I've wanted to after a bad day at work. I wonder if he's wanted the same thing.

My clock chimes in the other room, and I sigh and tighten my arms around him. "I guess we have to go to work tomorrow, don't we?"

He laughs against my hair. "Let's not. Lindsay can be in charge."

I laugh too. "She might have something to say about that. She's supposed to be off tomorrow."

He draws back so he can see me and takes both my hands in his. He looks happier than I've seen in a long time. "May I kiss you goodnight?" he says shyly.

I'm grinning foolishly, just because I love him so much. I wonder what I've ever done to deserve this. I look up at him and squeeze his hands.

"You don't have to ask that, either."


End file.
